Summary: Joanne is sick but goes out anyway, reader is drunk but notices and demands to take her home
Yeah this happened bc im procrastinating but hey ho, another self indulgent fic appears.
Thank you @etherynn for keeping me company and being my theasaurus while i was writing this at 1am.
"You know youre a cuddler"
A night out at a bar with your friends was the perfect way to relax after a long week of client meetings and deadlines. You're happily drinking your third or fourth cocktail (who's really keeping count?) when you notice Joanne distancing herself from the group, quieter, more reserved, and more concerningly, barely touching her martini.
You slink over to the booth she has withdrawn to, shuffling along the bench until your shoulders brush.
“You,” you sigh pointedly, waving an unsteady hand at her “are acting weird.”
She rolls her eyes and scoffs quietly around the rim of her glass. She doesn't drink, just letting her mouth rest there as she feigns irritation at your presence.
“You’re drunk” She mutters dryly, eyeing your waving hand and slightly glassy eyes.
Your drops in offence, gasping out in indignation despite the truth in her words. “I am not drunk” you protest, petulant whine slipping from your mouth.
Joanne just rolls her eyes at you and slumps back against the booth. You mirror her movements, leaning back against the padded back of the bench, your head lolling slightly to the side as you focus your gaze on her. you scan over her form, she's acting weird but you can't quite put your finger on why. Your eyes scan over her face, the slight pinch of her brow, the rosy glow on her cheeks that's just a bit too red, the circles under her eyes peeping through her concealer. Sliding down the seat a little, you reach over, poking at her nose to try to get a reaction.
Joanne’s frown deepens and she smacks away your hand.
“Dont.”
Your hand drops down to the table with a dejected thud. Of your group of friends, Joanne has always been the most lenient with you, never pushing too hard, or throwing too many insults your way, always making sure you got home safe and that you were eating enough to counteract all the alcohol she bought you without question. She’d let you curl into her side when the world started spinning and your words started to slur, carefully coaxing you into a taxi and taking you home. Her home. Never yours.
“I want to keep you where I can see you, baby” she’d murmur, nudging you though her townhouse towards her bedroom. You didnt question it of course, sinking into the plush mattress, letting her twist and move your body as she changed you into a set of her pyjamas. Again, you'd never questioned the affection she'd give you, settling into her care without second thought.
The sudden rejection stung. More than you'd care to admit. She had never frozen you out like that before, especially not for something so simple, but the sharpness of her voice startled you a little.
You clear your throat and sit up a little, biting down on your lip in a mix of nervousness and concern for the other woman.
“Sorry,” you mumble, gaze dropping away from her face to the mostly empty glass in your hand. A sigh echoes across the booth as Joanne weakly runs a hand through her hair.
“Don't apologise” she mutters, dropping her hand to rest over yours in the space between you. Her hand is hot, unnaturally so, slightly sweaty skin brushing over your cold fingers.
Turning your hand over, you lace your fingers with hers, taking note of the clammy skin.
“You're hot” you comment quietly. Your eyes flick to your hand for a moment and then up to her face.
Her eyes are close, brow still pinched but a light sheen of sweat glistens across her forehead. Concern for her spiking, you ignore her previous warning, pressing the back of your free hand against her forehead.
You sit up a little straighter, shuffling closer and sobering up a bit.
“You're burning up” you gasp quietly, worry colouring your tone.
This time when she tries to bat away your hand, you smack her hand right back, too concerned about her to listen to her complaints. She grumbles at you and tries to jerk her head away from your hand, muttering about how “She's fine” and “it's just the alcohol”. You scowl at her, knowing she'd barely had a sip.
“Joanne” you chide, “You're sick”
Joanne immediately goes to protest your accusation but you cut her off with a firm glare she can feel even with her eyes closed. She lets out a long, reluctant sigh.
“Maybe” she mutters, finally slumping down fully in the booth. She finally relinquishes her grip on her martini, setting it down on the table. You scoot closer to her, cupping her face in your cool palms.
“Why did you come out tonight?” you demand, “you should be at home”. You run your thumbs over her cheeks, the cool metal of your rings making her hiss slightly as they press against her burning skin.
"I'm fine.” Joanne mutters, leaning into your touch. You can see the fight starting to leave her body, replaced by exhaustion.
"I didn't want to worry you” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering close. “I didn't want to worry anyone”
Her head dips, resting against your shoulder. You can feel the heat practically radiating from her skin as she leans on you, her body shivering weakly as chills start to take over. The fact she was willingly leaning against you was concerning in itself. The fact she was doing it in public? That had you freaking out and sobering up, worry coiling uncomfortably in your stomach.
Even the press of her hot face against your neck is uncomfortable, sweat slicked skin barely touching you, yet you can feel her fever-high temperature.
Your concern deepens as you feel the heat radiating from her skin, her breath coming in short, almost panting huffs. Joanne tries to pull away, but you shift slightly, keeping her firmly against you as she tries to move.
"Joanne, you're not fine” you say, voice firm with worry and slight panic. “You're really sick”. She makes a weak noise of protest, her attempts to free herself from your grip weakening.
“I'm too hot,” she whines. It's a little shocking, the petulant, whiney, almost childish tone she uses compared to her usual snark and it makes your stomach twist tighter. You brush her hair back from her face and tap her chin until she looks at you.
“I'm taking you home” you decide, immediately shushing her as she goes to protest again “you have a fever, you're sick, I'm taking you home”
A small pout appears on her lips even as she nods weakly. Her usual sharp defiance has evaporated, replaced with a tired resignation.
“Fine” she croaks weakly, the word catching in her throat.
You slide out of the booth, and she follows your lead, slowly rising to her feet. She sways a bit, stumbling slightly, and you reach out, wrapping your arm around her waist to help steady her.
Despite your own drunkenness, you are surprisingly steady on your feet as you lead Joanne out of the bar, waving a quick goodbye to your friends as you pass. The cool night air is a shock to the both of you, pleasant and refreshing in your case, a step too far in Joanne's.
Her shivering starts almost immediately as the cold night air hits her like a tidal wave. She slumps weakly against you, her body trembling against your side as you help her towards a taxi bank.
Even with your added support, her steps are slightly faltering and sluggish, her head lolling against your shoulder as you half walk, half drag her across the sidewalk.
“Come on, we're almost there” you murmur reassuringly, hailing down a taxi.
It pulls up next to you and you help Joanne slide into the back before following her, giving the driver her address without second thought. It briefly crosses your mind that Joanne has never been to your apartment but you push the thought aside in favour of murmuring soft reassurances into her ear as the taxi pulls away from the curb.
Joanne leans against you heavily in the back of the taxi, her head resting on your shoulder as the streets pass by in a blur. Her eyes are half closed, and only a small groan comes from her when she shivers particularly hard.
“Cold” she mutters, voice so quiet you have to strain to hear her. Her body is still radiating heat, you can feel sweat clinging to her, her skin slippery and clammy where your arms are pressed together
You hum in acknowledgement but press your hand against her neck, feeling the heat of her skin.
“You've got a fever, honey” you sigh softly, “you'll start feeling better when we're home”
Joanne lets out a weak whine, burying her face into your neck, her overheated skin pressing against yours. The temperature difference between the two of you is stark and uncomfortable, but you find yourself shifting closer to her as she huddles against you.
She murmurs against your skin, the words mostly incoherent, but you catch snippets of “cold” and “hot” and a mumbled “don't feel good.”
“I know, I know,” you murmur. It's a little unnerving seeing her like this, vulnerable and needy. You've always been able to see through the sarcasm and dramatics to the soft, gentle woman underneath, but it's rare you see her looking so weak. Sure, there have been times when you've both been drunk and she's taken you back to hers where she curls into your side once she thinks you're asleep, but you've always put it down to the alcohol.
Now, it's different. She's not drunk, sick maybe, but you know for certain that if it were anyone else, she would have told them to get lost a long time ago, and they certainly wouldn't have been allowed to take her home even if they had managed to convince her she was sick. It makes your heart squeeze a little, a little fuzzy feeling blooming in your chest that you firmly decide to ignore because you're drunk and that's definitely the only reason you're feeling that way. Not because you've started craving the nights out where she loops her arm around your waist and steers you through her townhouse, murmuring soft praises about how well you're behaving for her even though you're drunk. Definitely not because every touch, even if she's feverish and sweating, makes your heart sing.
You firmly push those thoughts away as the taxi pulls up outside Joanne's, reaching into her purse and paying for the taxi with her card before she has the chance to demand you let her pay. Despite the certainty with which you are acting, you know you're still tipsy, and you really don't want to argue with her when you're both in a state. So, for once, you don't fight it.
She stirs from your shoulder, mumbling about paying.
“Already done it” you mutter to her, shoving her card back into her purse.
Joanne makes a soft noise of annoyance, and she tries to rise to protest, but her strength fails her. A brief flash of irritation passes over her face, but it's gone in an instant, replaced with a look of exhaustion and resignation.
You shift as you slide out of the taxi, helping Joanne exit as well. She stumbles as she stands, leaning heavily on you for support. She tries to straighten up, to put on her usual air of indifference, but she can't hide her shaking limbs or the soft moan that escapes her pale lips.
Guiding her to the door with your arm linked through hers, you rummage through her purse to find her keys. You unlock the door quickly, ushering her inside. You kick your heels off in the hallway, feeling much steadier on your feet now you're not four inches off the floor. You grab hold of her shoulders to hold her still and then crouch down in front of her, steadying yourself with your hands braced on her hips.
Joanne looks down at you with bleary eyes, a slight frown on her face. Her normally sharp gaze is dulled, and her cheeks are still flushed with fever.
She tries to protest, to insist that she can take off her shoes herself, but her words come out slurred and incoherent. She stumbles forward weakly, her hands falling to your shoulders as she sways unsteadily on her feet.
You tighten your drip on her hips, steadying her. Once she's stable, you slide your hands down to her shoes, unbuckling the straps and helping her step out of them. Throwing them off to the side, you stand back up, hands back on her hips for balance.
She leans on you heavily, her head dropping forward to rest on your shoulder. She's heavy, and uncoordinated, her limbs loose and boneless without her usual elegance. She shivers again, her body wracked with chills as her temperature spikes further.
You can feel the heat radiating from her skin, the sweat dampening the fabric of your shirt where it touches her face. She moans softly, the sound muffled against your neck.
“Are you going to make it upstairs or do you want to sleep on the sofa?” you murmur gently, letting your hands run along her sides.
You hear her let out a muffled whine into your shoulder. You decide to lead her into the living room, gently pushing her onto the couch. Disappearing from her sight for a moment you grab a cup of water from the kitchen.
Joanne protests faintly as you guide her to the couch and push her down to sit, but her words are drowned out by a rough, dry cough. She curls in on herself, her limbs trembling as chills rack her body.
You return with the water, crouching in front of her as she slumps against the couch cushions.
“Drink” you order her gently, holding the cup to her lips.
She nods weakly, eyes drifting closed as she parts her lips and lets you help her drink. The cool water soothes her throat, and she manages a few small sips before turning her head away, refusing the rest. She's still shivering, her body trembling uncontrollably as chills rack her frame.
You grumble quietly as she refuses to continue drinking.
“You're stubborn as hell, you know that?” you huff, setting the glass aside.
The room slowly starts spinning around you. Now you are safe and home, Joanne’s house, you remind yourself, you can feel the effects of the alcohol coming back. Groaning, you shift from crouching by the sofa to sitting on the floor, resting your head against the cushions.
"I know” she mutters weakly, her voice cracking on the words.
Her body is still trembling, and she wraps her arms tightly around herself in an attempt to find some warmth. Despite the illness, she still manages a tired smirk as she sees you slump against the couch, the alcohol catching up with you.
"You're slurring” she observes.
“Shut up”
Joanne lets out a small laugh at your retort, wincing a little as it sends a sharp wave of pain through her head.
"You're tipsy” she teases, her voice weak but still holding a firmness to it.
She shivers again, her whole body shaking violently as sweats and chills take over her.
You feel the shaking of her body against your shoulder and clumsily bring your hand up to run soothingly along her leg.
“Actually, I'm inclined to say I'm drunk,” you mutter dryly. She's right, your words do slur together a little, even more so because your head is buried in the cushion she's sat on.
"I'm surprised you admit it” she mumbles weakly, her words interrupted by another round of violent shivering. Despite her illness, there's a familiar sarcasm to her voice.
She attempts to straighten up slightly, but it only seems to make her more unsteady, and she teeters on the edge of the couch, her eyes fluttering closed. She lets out a weak groan, her hand reaching out to clutch at the fabric of your shirt.
“Stay.”
It's a hoarse, quiet command, but it carries the same firmness you know so well. Despite her illness, Joanne still manages to demand things from you, still acts as if she has any right to tell you what to do. But you can hear the vulnerability in her voice this time too. She wants you to stay, craves the support and stability you provide even when she is at her weakest.
Your head spins a little and you look up with a weak smile. You take in her trembling form, the sweat-slicked hair sticking to her forehead, the feverish flush on her cheeks.
“Honey I can barely walk” you tease. You know that's not why she wants you to stay, but you know how much she hates being vulnerable, even in front of you.
Joanne scoffs weakly at your comment, her usual smirk making an appearance. But there's no real bite to her words, her strength fading fast.
“Don’t honey me” she mutters, a hint of irritation in her voice.
But despite her sharp words, her grip on your shirt tightens, her hand tugging weakly on the fabric as if trying to bring you closer. You let her tug at your shirt until youre next to her on the sofa, the room lurching as you collapse into an undignified heap of limbs.
“Why not?” you sigh dramatically, wincing as your head starts pounding.
“you're so sweet,” you add sarcastically, letting your arm flop across your eyes.
She's still shivering, her whole body trembling next to you, but she leans into your touch when your arm hits her side, resting her head against the sofa cushion next to yours.
"This is your fault" she mutters, her voice weak but still carrying some of her usual sass.
You lift your arm away from your eyes and squint over at her.
“How the hell is this my fault?” you groan.
Joanne rolls her eyes weakly, even that miniscule movement making her wince. But she still manages a weary smirk.
"You got me sick" she mutters, her voice hoarse. She tries to prop herself up, but her strength fails her again, and she slumps against the couch, her head lolling heavily against the cushion.
You reach out and brush her hair out of her face, even as your jaw drops in offence.
“That's not-” you go to protest. But then you cut yourself off. That's not strictly untrue. A few weeks ago you had been sick, with very similar symptoms, but by the time you had seen your friends again your symptoms had cleared up. Then again, you'd spent that whole evening pressed into Joanne's side, still a little tired and clingy so it's possible you might have made her sick then and it was only just affecting her. You let out a reluctant sigh.
“Okay, maybe this is my fault,” you admit softly, “but I didn't mean to.”
Joanne lets out a weak huff of laughter at your reluctant acceptance, a hoarse sound that is cut off by a soft cough.
"Oh, so now you admit it" she mutters, her voice thick with fatigue and irritation. Despite her annoyance, there's no real anger in her words, only a hint of resignation.
The fever is really taking a toll on her body, her shivering growing more violent by the second, her teeth chattering together uncontrollably. She presses closer to you, seeking the warmth your body provides.
A whine of protest escapes you as she presses her overheating body into you. Despite your ice cold hands, the rest of your body runs hot, so the warmth from her body makes you overheat almost instantly.
“Too hot, get off” you groan.
Despite her sickness, Joanne can't help but let out a weak scoff at your protest, even as she trembles violently next to you.
"But I'm cold," she mutters weakly, resting her forehead against your shoulder.
She shifts a bit further, pressing closer to your body, seeking the warmth she craves. Her skin is hot to the touch, but her teeth are still chattering together uncontrollably, her body trying to fight off the fever.
“No you're not,” you whine, “you're sweating all over me,”
She ignores your protests and remains pressed into you, her arm wrapping over your waist and clenching in the side of your shirt. You're too drunk and uncoordinated to wiggle yourself out of her grasp so you whine loudly and resign yourself to overheating.
Despite your protest, Joanne shows no signs of moving, her grip on your shirt remaining tight as she presses herself against you. Her breathing is laboured, raggedy and harsh as the chills wrack her body, her skin feverish and damp with sweat.
"Shut up" she grumbles weakly, hiding her face in the crook of your neck. Her body is trembling uncontrollably, shivering and shuddering, but she refuses to let go.
You're not sure how long you sit there, smothered by the other woman, feeling her shuddering body against yours. Your eyes are closed, still feeling dizzy from drinking and your body never stops protesting the heat radiating from Joanne's body, but you're too tired to fight it anymore, gently slipping in and out of sleep.
Despite her fevered state, exhaustion slowly catches up to Joanne too and eventually, her breathing slows, her trembling body stilling as it succumbs to sleep.
Occasionally, she lets out a soft moan of discomfort, but her grip on your shirt remains firm, her body pressed tightly against you even in unconsciousness.
By morning, you've sobered up enough to realise you may have drank too much and that the pounding headache you feel behind your eyes is only going to get worse. You can still feel Joanne pressed up against your side but unlike earlier, the heat of her skin is not oppressive, her fever having broken while you both slept.
A small grunt of complaint from Joanne alerts you to her waking, and her grip on your shirt tightens as she tries to burrow tighter into you, seeking comfort.
There’s a moment of silence as she slowly regains consciousness, but she quickly stiffens as awareness fully returns to her. You can almost hear her brain slowly processing what’s happened, remembering the events of the night before, the illness, the clinging, the vulnerability.
“Stop it” you grunt, feeling her rapidly trying to put her walls back up.
There's a brief moment of hesitation, her grip on your shirt going slack as she fights with herself, struggling with the vulnerability of their current position.
But then she takes a deep breath, her body relaxing slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters stubbornly. The snark in her voice is half-hearted, her usual tone softened by tiredness and a faint shakiness from the remnants of her illness.
You lift your arm to rest over her waist, gently stroking along the curve of her hip.
“Do you feel better?” you ask gently.
Joanne's breath hitches at your touch, a shiver running through her body. She doesn't answer at first, her pride preventing her from admitting that she does feel slightly better. But the warmth of your hand on her hip feels good, comforting and familiar, and despite herself, she relents a little.
She takes another deep breath, her head still resting heavily against your shoulder. "I feel... okay" she murmurs hesitantly.
“Good” you sigh. You are genuinely pleased that she is feeling better, you don't want her to be in pain or uncomfortable, but right now your head is pounding and you've never had to find where she keeps her painkillers before.
“Could you, maybe, get me some painkillers?” you mumble quietly.
Joanne snorts softly, shaking her head in disbelief at your request.
"Seriously?” she mutters, a note of dry amusement in her voice. Despite her illness, her sense of sarcasm and snark hadn't diminished at all.
"You're asking me for painkillers?”
"Please, Jo," You whine, scrunching up your face.
She huffs quietly, her eyes rolling at your plea.
"You're so pathetic" she mutters, her tone lacking any real heat. Despite her irritation, there's a hint of fondness in her voice, a hint that she can't deny even in her sick state.
She carefully pushes herself off you, slowly sitting up, feeling how her own head begins to pound. She groans quietly but tries to stifle it back, still not eager to show you any more weakness than she already had.
“Thank you” you whisper as she pulls away.
Joanne manages a weary huff of laughter, but it quickly morphs into a small cough, her body still weak from the remnants of the illness. Despite her efforts to hide her own discomfort, she glances over her shoulder and shoots you a dry look.
"Don't thank me" she mutters, "you look pathetic enough without me helping you”
Despite your eyes remaining closed, you roll them, the movement sending pain shooting through your head. You grumble quietly as she moves to fetch painkillers for the both of you. As much as you hate to admit that the brief separation of her body from yours makes you regret asking her to get the tablets, it does, and you find yourself leaning into the warmth of the space she just occupied.
Joanne shuffles around the kitchen, rummaging quietly through the cupboards for the painkillers. After a few seconds, she finds the small packet and takes out two tablets for herself, and two for you, before refilling two glasses with water. As she's moving around, her movements are still sluggish, her muscles still weak from her illness.
Finally, she makes it back to the living room. She takes in your slumped body, your head lolled to the side, the way you're leaning into the warm space where she was previously lying.
A sharp pang shoots through her chest as she stares at you, your body slumped against the cushions of her couch, looking oddly fragile and vulnerable. Unbidden, a wave of protectiveness washes over her, her throat suddenly feeling strangely tight, a feeling that was growing more and more familiar to her everytime she brought you home.
"Sit up” she snaps, trying to hide the softness she feels and failing miserably, “take your pills”
You let out a tired groan, but you do as she says, slowly sitting up on the couch. Your head pounds furiously, and for a second, the movement is too much, but you steady yourself, reaching out to take the painkillers from her hand.
She watches you carefully as you take the painkillers, the urge to wrap her arms around you and tell you to lie back down almost overwhelming, but she manages to quash it. She wouldn't be able to hide behind the excuse of alcohol or fever induced delirium. Instead, she sits down heavily on the couch, downing her own pills with a wince.
Almost on instinct, you lean into her side, resting your head on her shoulder with a small grunt.
“Do you think you're going to get sick sick or was it just the fever?” you murmur.
She doesn't protest as you lean into her, your head dropping heavily down onto her shoulder. Even with the fever gone, something still feels off. But she won't admit that to you, so she just huffs softly and shrugs.
"I don't know" she mutters softly, her hand coming up to briefly rest against your temple. "I feel..." she pauses, unsure how to describe it.
"Wrong” you mumble.
She lets out a soft hum, nodding in agreement. She can't help but feel that something is still wrong, that there's still something lingering, but she can't quite put her finger on it. The words are on the tip of her tongue, but she's too exhausted to say them out loud.
"Yeah" she agrees quietly, her fingers gently rubbing at your temple, tracing idle patterns against your skin.
There's a moment of silence, just the sound of your breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioning filling the silence around the two of you. Joanne's head rests against the back of the couch, her eyes closed, a small frown on her face.
She knows that she feels off, that something in her body is still not right, but she doesn't know what it is. Her body feels too heavy, too hot, everything just off by a barely noticeable margin that sets every nerve in her body on edge.
"I'm gonna stay for a few days" You eventually mumble
Joanne's eyes flutter open, a small frown on her face. Her immediate protest dies in her throat as she sees the determined look in your eyes. It's clear that you're not going to take no for an answer.
"Fine" she mutters, rolling her eyes and suppressing the wave of relief that washes over her at the thought.
"But you're sleeping on the couch" she adds, trying to sound as stern as possible despite the weakness still lingering in her body
"No I'm not”
A small scoff of disbelief leaves her throat, an indignant look crossing her face. "Yes you are" she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not sharing my bed with you.”
You lift your head from her shoulder and squint at her with barely open eyes.
"You've changed your tune. The last time I was in your bed you spooned up behind me the second you thought I was asleep”
Joanne's face flushes at your words, her heart hammering in her chest. She remembers every night she spent curled around your sleeping body, her face buried in your hair, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. She doesn't know what possessed her to cling to you like that, she just knows that your proximity, your warmth, your scent, is somehow the one thing that calms her, that eases the feeling of loneliness that has settled deep in her stomach.
But she won't admit to that, not in a million years, so she just grumbles under her breath and refuses to meet your eyes.
"Shut up" she mutters weakly "that never happened.”
You can't help but laugh softly at her denial, knowing full well how fond she is of clinging to you when she thinks you won't notice. But you sense her discomfort, the way her whole body tenses at the memory, so you almost decide to drop the subject for now. Almost. You nudge her gently with your shoulder, a small smile on your face.
"You know you're a cuddler"
Joanne just grumbles, still refusing to meet your gaze. Her face is still flushed, the heat rising to her cheeks despite the fact that her fever has mostly dissipated.
"I am not” she protests weakly, her voice betraying her with its shakiness. "I don't cuddle”
Your grin widens and you shuffle about on the sofa until you're pressed fully into her side, arm slung across her waist as you settle in for a long day of battling your hangover and Joanne’s snark.
Frantically finishing a WIP so i can put it out in the world and forget i wrote it so in a few months i can read it, forget i wrote it, get excited about it, and get a massive ego boost when i check the author and its me
just saw this guy on TikTok say “it’s not depression if your life is depressing. It’s not anxiety if your life is stressful.” and I think that’s so important bc this therapist I had when I was a teen once said to me that he can’t really do much to help me bc me being depressed was a reasonable response to my circumstances. And the only option I had was to wait until I turned 18 and had the independence to change my life and get out of that toxic environment. And it remained true. As soon as I was able to build my own life I got better without therapy or medication and almost instantly at that. My life simply wasn’t depressing anymore. (I exclude PMS/PMDD mood drops from that bc that’s hormone-related and not primarily psychiatric.) and even now I’m only depressed when my illness makes me feel like I’m actively dying and I’m bed bound. As soon as I have the tiniest bit of energy I’m back to my old joyful, excited self.
Sometimes it isn’t you. Sometimes it’s your circumstances.
sisters and brothers in the faithful eye of god, join me in this makeshift prayers circle because i find myself in dire need for
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
🕯️ 🕯️
🕯️ money 🕯️
dededos
annaxmalina
theartofmadeline
izzy806
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
andulkaphoto
stormborns
dailybridgerton
